My Series woes sorted
SINCE coronavirus has changed the world, at least for the foreseeable future, I seem very much stuck in England. One of my greatest consolations should be spending more time with my lovely Lightweight, but that particular boon is tinged with having to face the truth that my seven-year passion for the Middle East has forced the Lightweight into very much a backseat role.
The loyal 43-year-old vehicle that reliably starts fifth time, even after being left standing for three months, is not only looking battered but it’s sounding battered. To my attuned ear, it is not running well and I recently had to pull over to give the poor thing a rest on a dodgy stretch of Devon highway, comically termed Splatford Split, because a queer noise was emanating from the engine at such a volume that it even penetrated my military-issue ear defenders.
It also demands gallons of water, drinks oil like a sponge, sounds like a helicopter and constantly overheats, even though I had the thermostat taken out several years ago. Repeated claims by various mechanics (who have returned the vehicle with only one or two of my carefully-penned long list of jobs completed) that it’s now running like a dream are undermined by my own sense of how the Lightweight feels and sounds. One thing is for sure: in its current condition I cannot drive it back to London.
“Why not give my mechanic Dave a try?” my mum suggests, as I sit twiddling my keys and fretting about what on earth to do, as I can’t take the vehicle to the metalworker to have a new vent panel made up when the pedals are hanging off a rusty footwell and it seems mechanically unsound. “He’s a lovely Devonian and seems to be a great mechanic.”
My mum has always been good at finding mechanics; probably a combination of her lifelong commitment to driving old bangers (of which she is usually the penultimate owner before the scrapheap) and the fact that she’s just lovely.
I walk over to Dave’s garage on a sunny day and say I have a Lightweight that needs quite a bit of work. “There’s nothing I can’t do on a Land Rover,” Dave states flatly. “Bring it in and I’ll have a look.” As I launch into a vague ramble about the many things that need doing off the top of my head, Dave cuts through to simply say: “You’d better make a list.” This is music to my ears.
I drive by later for Dave to take a cursory look at the Lightweight and my list, which spills across two pages. “I can do all this but I can’t start work until next week,” he says, with the added caveat that he can’t price up the work until he’s properly looked at the vehicle. I explain that I want the Lightweight sorted properly, not skimping, explaining it’s a vehicle for life. “I’ve heard that before,” he says, wryly. “Ah, but with me, it’s true,” I say, as I fully anticipate that Land Rover driving my coffin to the crematorium, Sultan of Oman-style.
I drop into the fantastic Brookwell Supplies to pick up a long-overdue replacement driver’s seat base, as mine was rotten. Buoyed up by having found a mechanic who actually seems prepared to seriously take on the Lightweight, and the fact that I am sitting several inches taller behind the driving wheel thanks to the new seat, I start to make daily trips, as previous experience has shown that it can make everyone’s life easier if I source the required replacement parts.
Like a kid in a sweet shop, I acquire new seals for various components I think need replacing – a front headlight section and a coil for the clutch pedal. Finally abandoning my amateurish and failing efforts to rescue and restore the rusting door tops, I also buy two new windowless door tops (because they’ve changed the glass detail slightly in the new ones), along with all the new edgings required to fit in the original windows.
Online, I source a new driver’s footwell, a genuine Lightweight bulkhead to vent panel seal (for a ridiculous price, but I’m grateful to find it at all) and an indulgent and wholly unnecessary genuine under-bonnet toolbox, something I’ve always rather longed for.
I’m £400 lighter for the shopping and 100 times happier.
A week later, Dave calls. “How are you?” I ask. “I’m fine thanks, but you won’t be,” he says. He has looked at the Lightweight, along with a Series fanatic he works with (apparently a legendary although elusive local Land Rover figure – the mystical ‘Mick’) and it’s not good news. I had expected nothing less.
It’s a big job. The engine has to come out, not least because all the core plugs need replacing, but this will make access easier for welding in the new footwell, other rusted-out sections and also fitting a new handmade vent panel, which I request to be painted the same curious shade of mustard as its predecessor. I hate change! Leaking manifold bolts are the reason why “it sounds like a helicopter” (which was on the list) and, overall, it’s actually a relief to know that I wasn’t imagining the engine problems.
They’ve come up with a rough costing for the work, pending the discovery of any further serious faults. It’s a substantial sum, but one I will gladly pay to have my Lightweight properly fixed and back running nicely on England’s roads.
“Repeated claims by various mechanics that it’s now running like a dream are undermined by my own sense of how the Lightweight feels and sounds”
■ Thom Westcott is a British freelance journalist who has written for the Times and Guardian, and now mostly spends her time reporting from Libya.